“Oh?” Avers asked.

“Mademoiselle Cadeaux would do well not to go near him. We hear things. We know to keep away from him.”

These ominous words were the last Réne uttered. Despite Avers urging and coaxing him, hoping to find out more, the old man fell silent again.

“Well, I shall take up no more of your time, for you will be wanting to get to your flower market.” Avers bowed as low as he would to any Countess or Duchess. “I thank you both for your time.”

“No—thank you—and Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” the girl said with sudden fervour, taking up Avers’ hands to pull him to standing and pressing her fine, bony fingers around his own. “Please tell her how grateful we are.”

Avers said nothing. He had no intention of passing on the message, and he could not bring himself to lie. Instead, he smiled at the girl, inclined his head towards Réne, who gave a brief nod back, and turned to leave. He exited the alley and the squalor in which the vast majority of Paris lived and returned to the city of his own kind.

What had he learned? That Mademoiselle Cadeaux had not come here to work on behalf of the Comte. From these people’s reactions, it seemed they would have nothing to do with the French noble. She had in fact come for charitable efforts, to a people she had an affinity with because she, like them, had once been living hand-to-mouth in the back streets of the French capital.

Avers felt a strange sort of sheepishness at having intruded on a secret part of this woman’s life. He had unwittingly done so and discovered a facet of her character previously hidden. From the secretive way she came to the Île de la Cité, it was not something she wanted advertised—the complete opposite of the bragging Madame Pertuis.

Avers had found out one very important piece of information. Mademoiselle Cadeaux was not who he’d thought she was. Not at all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On his return to the Hôtel du Tremaine, Avers found a missive from Wakeford. The men watching the Comte’s movements had reported that whilst Vergelles was still at home, his mistress and the Marquis de Dartois were abroad.

Avers considered this information. Mademoiselle Cadeaux and Dartois were not his target and yet… it would surely be auspicious to cross paths with them and further his acquaintance. Yes, he should seek them out, to further his mission to find the missing papers. It had nothing to do with a brand-new desire to understand the woman who was proving an enigma.

Skipping breakfast, much to the Tremaine chef’s chagrin, Avers struck out for the Champs-Élysées where his quarries had last been spotted. Perhaps, thought Avers as he tried to forget the distracting image of a dark-haired woman walking through the streets of Paris at night, he could secure an invitation to the Comte’s residence from one of them. If the Comte would not confide in Avers willingly, the next best thing would be to gain access to his house and try to find the missing papers himself.

Dartois would likely be pleased to see him and might easily invite him to another social engagement. But he did not reside with the Comte and likely held less sway than the nobleman’s mistress. It would be Mademoiselle Cadeaux who would hold the key to the Comte’s door, and Avers was fairly sure she did not like him. He needed to overcome her aversion.

Once he reached the main thoroughfare it did not take him long to spot the couple among the throng, thanks to a series of sharp barks and a stream of angry French.

Rather than approach them directly, Avers ascertained where they were heading and found a place along their route where he might intersect them. The spot he chose was beside a street performer dazzling the crowds with acrobatic feats. The short, wiry man had a jolly little face and had already flipped backwards, landing on a box, and raising his arms to rapturous applause.

Avers followed suit and, tucking his cane under his arm, clapped heartily before tossing a few coins into the performer’s hat on the floor. He kept his eyes on the acrobat-come-contortionist who was now bending backwards in the most unnatural way, and resisted the urge to look to the right where Mademoiselle Cadeaux and Dartois were standing.

While still bent double, the performer took a coin offered by a young girl, and the crowd laughed and crowed with delight. Avers joined in. Loudly.

“It is him.” The male voice came from his right.

“Oui, and I am sure he does not wish for his enjoyment to be disturbed.”

“Nonsense, Mademoiselle, you are too full of sensibility. We shall greet him and there are no monkeys by this performer who your little devil can try to dispatch.”

Avers kept his eyes on the acrobat, concentrating on keeping his body relaxed as he lounged back on one leg. He laughed again at the antics of the performer.

Dartois hailed him. “Your Grace.”

Avers broke off laughing and scanned the crowd, surprised pleasure lighting his eyes as they fell upon the genial looking Dartois, and an aloof looking Mademoiselle Cadeaux.

Aloof—was that the look? He couldn’t quite make it out. She had fixed a polite smile onto her countenance, but it held no warmth, and she looked less than inclined to strike up a conversation with the English Duke.

This was not a good start.

“Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Avers said, making a leg and bowing. “Dartois. What a pleasure to see you this fine day. Have you watched this man?” He turned immediately from them and gestured with his cane at the performer. “Never seen the like. I’ve half a mind to employ him just for entertainment at supper.”

It was a good feint. His coming across the pair in the large city of Paris was convenient to say the least. He hoped faking an interest in something other than his object would set them at ease.

“How luck smiles her radiant face upon us to be fortuitous enough to bump into you twice in one week, Your Grace,” Dartois said very prettily. “I have half a mind to think it fate.”

“Then fate is a kind mistress to me today,” Avers replied in a similarly hyperbolic style. “It seems Your Grace gets around Paris at a rate of knots,” the Marquis continued. “Was it not you I saw at the Salles des Machines last night?”

Avers tensed. He had not seen Dartois at the theatre, but then again, once he had identified the Comte and his mistress, he’d had eyes for no one else.

“Oh yes, I followed a recommendation from Mademoiselle Cadeaux.” Avers inclined his head towards the petite woman. “Unfortunate that the family box was inhabited when I arrived.”

He had to reason away his meeting Wakeford and to play on the lie that it was happenstance seemed the only way to go.

“Ah! You have been recommending your theatrical friends to the Duke, then?” Dartois asked Mademoiselle Cadeaux. “A pity you were not there at the end, Mademoiselle, or you could have introduced His Grace to the famed Saint-Val Cadette.”

“Oui,” she answered, not returning Dartois’ gaze, hers remaining fixed on the acrobat. “But I returned home early—the headache.”

Avers allowed no change to come over his expression at the falsehood.

“Alas, I also had the headache,” he said smoothly. “So I left early, though not before I could see the reason for Saint-Val Cadette’s fame.”

At this admission Mademoiselle Cadeaux turned to observe him, her dark eyes piercing, the look measuring.

“It’s the result of my cousin’s sermons,” Avers said, pursuing the topic of his headache and using it to further embroider his false lineage. “I shall forever be an errant parishioner in his familial church.”

“And where are you off to this morning?” Dartois asked. “Might you venture to the Île de la Cité to see some of our medieval architecture and sate that historical bent you have—or are you on your cousin’s business?”

The mention of the Parisian island caused another sharp look from Mademoiselle Cadeaux. It was a coincidence, no doubt, Avers’ alter-ego was known for his historical interests.

“A fine suggestion,” Avers replied. “I have been told the chapel was one of the wonders of medieval Paris, so I must make time to pay it a visit—I still have some interest in antiquities—but for now I am in search of a spot of gaming. If I do not find something to line my pockets soon, I fear I shall expire from ennui before the week is out.”

Was that a wrinkle on Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s nose? Excellent. She was back to despising him, and that was better than fearing him discovering her philanthropic endeavours. If he was viewed as a threat, he may attract undue attention. He must appear the lazy, debauched Duke of Tremaine to make his way into the Comte’s confidences.

“And you?” Avers replied in an easy drawl. “May I return the interrogation?” One brow rose slowly up in question.

“Nothing that will alleviate your ennui,” Mademoiselle Cadeaux said, a little too quickly.

He had hit a nerve then, with the mention of his leaving the theatre early and Dartois speaking of the island in the Seine. She wished to be rid of him.

“Oh, don’t mind Mademoiselle Cadeaux—the Comte is busy this morning and she is feeling neglected. I am sure we might entertain you for a little while.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dartois. I have no such feelings.”

“And,” the Marquis said with emphasis, ignoring her interjection, “her little devil of a dog just bit a monkey for which she was forced to pay the owner three sous.” His handsome face broke into a smile, and when she glared back at him, he began to laugh.